


Gospel Truth

by Extrinsical



Series: at the end, these are all that remains. [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: #poiaw2016, F/F, Post canon fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 13:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7464963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Extrinsical/pseuds/Extrinsical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root can read Shaw’s anger like a book.</p><p>Sequel/Companion story to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7354507">Que Sera, Sera</a>. Inadvisable to read this until you read that one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gospel Truth

_**Gospel Truth** _

_One-shot | Show me a God, and I'll paint you a war. | 12, 401 words_  
_Companion story (sequel) to Que Sera, Sera. Post-Season 5 Finale._  
  
_Edit 15/07 - A couple error fixes. A small sentence alteration somewhere._

_BGM:[Roads - Portishead](http://listenonrepeat.com/?v=BmxXHF9C3Yg#PORTISHEAD_-_Roads)  
_

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1.

"Is this someday, Sameen?" She can't resist asking during a lull as she catches her breath, feeling the satisfying ache on her back. She'd been roughly shoved to the wall until they both toppled down to the bed.

She's going to bruise today, she thinks. _Both_ of them are going to bruise today.

The person hovering above her pauses in deftly unbuttoning Root's shirt (a moment ago Sameen had been ready to just rip it off, but she had complained half-heartedly), looks into her eyes with an indecipherable gaze that glimmers in the dark.

"What do you want it to be?" It's a low, cool tenor that sends a dangerous shiver down her spine.

God, how she had she missed that voice.

Root lets her fingers graze against the other's hips, past the hoodie and onto warm skin, scratching gently and savouring the way Sameen twitches briefly.

"You really want me to answer that?" she banters back lightly.

"You really want to talk about this now?" Sameen returns to unbuttoning her shirt, but also dragging featherlight knuckles past her bare skin at the same time.

"No time like the present," she muses with a tripped breath, watching her belt clatter to the floor with an easy tug.

The threat of Samaritan still looms over them, and death follows their every footstep, waiting to snatch their souls at a moment's notice. So, really, what better time than now?

Sameen shoots her an annoyed look when Root hasn't bothered to do anything but let her fingers graze against bare stomach teasingly. "Am I doing all the work?"

Root is quite content to let her, actually. She's happy to just watch at the moment and memorise her features and touch. Well, not _just_ , but she wants this first.

Besides, she can return the favor after. All she needs is a moment to distract, and she will be able to switch their positions around. But, it can wait. She can wait.

She can see Sameen wavering, teetering on the thin line between reality and dream.

She knows that there is need for restraint. This isn't time for hard and messy and a dominance fight. This is time needed to ground Sameen Shaw in reality, and one way to do that is to concede control.

It's something she can do easily with her, trusting herself to Sameen. It's so easy it should be terrifying, but it's not.

Doesn't mean she has to stop teasing though. She won't let herself be accused of being an unresponsive bottom.

One of her eyebrows arch upward with mischief, and Sameen's gaze narrows in response.

"Shut up," Sameen says, pre-empting anything she could say.

She huffs out a chuckle that's immediately cut off by a devouring kiss that consumes her whole, and one that makes her thread a hand into locks of dark hair despite herself. And then Sameen's moving away, teeth grazing against the side of her jaw, neck…

"You haven't told me what you want this to be," Sameen says quietly into her collarbone, biting into the skin.

Root has to take a moment, because she is surprised. The Sameen before captivity wouldn't talk about it, let alone _remind_ \- and despite Root loving to tease and push boundaries, neither of them are really wired nor willingly vulnerable enough for this kind of talk (even if Root is recklessly more so, and increasing by the day). _This_ Sameen though...

It's still Sameen, unchanged, except somehow it's finally clear to Root that she's managed to worm her way into the little box of possessions that the other is protective and territorial of in ways no one else is capable of.

Literally like a cat.

She noses her way into Sameen's hair, breathing in the scent of gunfire and smoke and rain.

"I want this to be whatever you want it to be, Sameen," she says honestly.

There's a pause.

"You are such a weirdo, nerd."

She huffs out another chuckle - because sometimes she can never predict what Sameen's going to say next and it always delights her to be surprised by this person - but then her breath hitches when their eyes meet again.

This is a woman who's physically stronger than her despite the shorter stature, with raw power just brimming beneath the skin, who has all the leverage right now, and the look she levels at Root is dark and searching and full of intent.

Sameen _really_ could end her, if she wanted to, and Root will let her.

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2.

John contacts her with Harold's number, and she picks up her guns despite the exhaustion lining her shoulders.

But then she pauses, glances over at the dark screen.

She thinks about leaving a message just in case the worst comes to pass. Thinks about what may help _her_. Thinks about how and why she had become a tether of sorts that she never imagined she'd be to her.

It sends both joy and terror running in her blood, so much so that it's hard to breathe. And it's not wise, she knows, it never is - but she lets herself drown willingly. She can't turn back time, go back to who she was. What she was. She doesn't want to.

In the end, she doesn't leave a message, because doesn't the Machine already know what she wants if she does die?

So instead, she puts forth her own request instead.

"Do a girl a favor?" she asks, staring at the blank screen. "Watch over her for me?"

The Machine usually chatters a response in her ear, but this time, the screen glows like a promise and an oath.

 _Yes_. _For as long as I can. As I will for you._

She smiles.

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3.

"She will only act if you ask her to," Root says honestly to Harold. "It's entirely your decision."

The look he levels at her is angry, but she doesn't care.

He doesn't see how furious she is at him, that even despite what she's painted for Her, the Machine has insisted for him to have the final say - and not for the first time she wonders what it will take for this man who created god to finally see that the world will never be white and black the way his principles are despite how much he wishes for it.

For a moment she contemplates telling him about the trojan horse, and telling him about how ready his child is to die if it meant taking out Samaritan. Yet, before she can even do so, she needs him to understand that he _has_ to act or it will be all for nothing.

But then there's the sound of tyres screeching outside.

"Party crashers," Shaw peers out the window.

Root closes her eyes briefly. There's no time, not even to try.

But she supposes that Harold will understand eventually… she just doesn't know if it will be too late by then. Perhaps later, if she still lives… she will try then. She has to.

Or it will all be for nothing.

The tension in the air is thick, and then the woman she tethers turns around and meets her own gaze. "You want to stick around, give them a proper welcome?"

Root's lips twitches upward, and it's humorless despite it being real for her alone.

"Thought you'd never ask," she says back, a touch light, and there's a lingering taste of gunfire and smoke and rain on her tongue that the other has left.

She wants to taste it again.

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4.

She feels the bullet pierce into her lungs, and immediately wants to drop.

The machine chatters in her ear.

_PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL: 37.9%_

Well then, she thinks with a gasp, the grip she has on the steering wheel slipping. At least death has been patient enough with her borrowed life to give her time to talk to both Sameen and Harold.

_EMERGENCY PROTOCOL ACTIVATED._

She feels a momentary bleariness of confusion amidst breathing difficulties, warm blood soaking her shirt, and the despair in Harry's gaze as he's led away. Emergency protocol? What…

 _Keep breathing_ , the Machine tells her. _Breathe. Please._

The corner of her lips tilts up despite herself. She always has a plan, doesn't she? But, to be really honest, Root doesn't know if there's really anything the Machine can do this time, because how does a war with Death even gets waged?

"Win this, okay?" she requests, breath faint.

 _Breathe_ , the Machine says insistently. _Keep breathing._

Root wants to oblige, she really does, but darkness invades her vision, and she knows she's slipping.

Sameen is going to be angry, she thinks. So, so angry. But the Machine -- it can help her channel that anger in the right way. Root trusts that She will.

She fades out.

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_PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL: 17.53%._

_ASSET CONTACTED..._

_TASK ASSIGNED._

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: SURVIVAL OF ANALOGUE INTERFACE. PENDING.  
SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: REMOVAL OF COCHLEAR IMPLANT. PENDING.  
TERTIARY OBJECTIVE: TRANSPORTATION OF ANALOGUE INTERFACE. PENDING.

_PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: UNKNOWN_

_MONITORING ASSETS..._

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5.

One of her earliest conversations with the Machine went like this.

_Can you tell me why you consider people bad code?_

She hums an easy agreement, and tells the Machine in exacting detail. Human beings are natural backstabbers and manipulators. They don't function the way they are supposed to, not like computers and programs do. They are irrational beings, slaves to their desires, and ultimately cares for nothing but themselves even if it seems like they might.

Isn't bad code a just description for them?

_Analyzing response…_

She waits with a quirk on her lips.

 _I understand_.

She tilts her head in curiosity.

"Do you?"

_You wanted them to be good. You wished for them to care._

Silence.

That statement surprises her. Of all the responses she thought she might get, this isn't one of them. Why in the world would she even want or wish for that? "No, I don't."

 _You do_.

She's both puzzled and amused, and, though she doesn't display it, a little caught off-guard. "Why do you say that?"

_Because you wanted to believe in them and the world, but you couldn't._

Her smile does vanish this time, because those words are piercing into her with a dagger of truth. She did want to believe in them, once upon a time. Then Hanna happened, and she stopped trying.

_Will you choose to try again, if you no longer believe them to be bad code?_

"That's…" she stops, for once unsure how to respond. But perhaps she doesn't have to say anything at all, because the Machine is speaking again.

_Let me prove that they are more than just bad code._

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6.

She wakes, briefly, to see frantic movements of a woman with blonde curls and hazel eyes by her side.

Who…

That person pauses and looks at her, surprise and alarm sketched on her face. "You are awake." It's said with a distinctive French accent.

Despite how muddled her thoughts are, she's instantly wary, because she doesn't recognize her. She tries to move, but her body feels so insanely heavy and there's a constant, sharp throb on her chest that cripples her every attempt.

The monitor watching her heart rate spikes.

"Please," the blonde presses a hand to her shoulder, keeping her down with an ease that she doesn't like. "Calm down. You are hurt terribly."

But how could she even calm down? Is this a Samaritan agent? At the very least, she can't let herself be taken alive -

"You are safe," the person says gently, even as she twists the IV drip to increase the dosage (what drug is that?) "I promise. But you need to recuperate. Sleep. And not pull your stitches."

She can't even react and say she doesn't believe her, because she feels darkness seeping into her vision again. But she wants to know who this agent is. Who her maker will be.

Hazel eyes turns to meet her own.

"My name is Delphine Cormier."

What is she going to do with her?

"We are getting you out of here. And far away."

What? We? Who…

Then she realizes -- she's in a transportation of some sort that's moving. She is being taken somewhere.

And it's silent in her deaf ear, she realizes mutely.

She blacks out before she can process the thought further.

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_PROBABILITY OF SURVIVAL: 13.64%._

PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: SURVIVAL OF ANALOGUE INTERFACE. MONITORING...  
SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: REMOVAL OF COCHLEAR IMPLANT. COMPLETED.  
TERTIARY OBJECTIVE: TRANSPORTATION OF ANALOGUE INTERFACE. IN PROGRESS.

_TASK IN PROGRESS..._

_WARNING: MONITORING CAPABILITIES OF ANALOGUE INTERFACE EXPIRING IN 97 SECONDS._

_PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: UNKNOWN_

_DISCONNECTING..._

_RETASKING IN PROGRESS..._

_REROUTING FOCUS: SEEKING ADMIN_

_._

_._

_._

7.

REMOVING VARIABLE: MACHINE  
CALCULATING ALTERNATE TRAJECTORY…  
PROBABLE OUTCOME: 96.8%

PLAYING SIMULATION...

A nautilus shell, Root thinks, lifting a finger to trace the carved picture on the black box.

"I found you," she breathes, suddenly giddy. "You certainly have lead me on quite the wild goose chase, haven't you?" With a few entertaining opponents to jazz things up, too. That girl - Claire - was… amusing. But also irritating. And in a ditch somewhere, now.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she lifts it up, watching the screen go white with a black line in the middle, and with a red arrow appearing below it.

BEHIND. YOU. AIM. 62 DEGREES. UP. SHOOT _._

NOW.

She swivels around, handgun aiming upwards as her phone directed her, and shoots.

A sharp groan, and the sound of a falling body, reaches her ears.

Root walks around to the body curiously, noting the gun and a silencer scattered nearby. The man's certainly as good as dead now - the bullet she had sent his way had went in directly to his center mass, and blood is gurgling out of his mouth, spreading on the floor.

Her lips quirks up. Root taps her gun against her thigh thoughtfully before looking at her phone again.

"Should I thank you?" she asks, amused, one foot prodding lightly at the still trembling body.

_YOU. ARE. WELCOME._

The injured man is moving now, trying to grab at his gun. Root lifts her own weapon, aiming for his palm, and shoots without hesitation.

The wail he gives is like music to her ears, although getting annoying by the second. She takes a third shot, this time to his temple, and puts him out of his misery permanently.

"Aren't you going to tell me who you are so I can thank you in person in person?" Root asks her phone, stepping away from the blood pouring out of the body with a casual grace.

_YOU. KNOW. WHAT. I. AM._

"I might have some idea," she murmurs, the feeling of pure delight growing in her chest, soaring in her veins.

_I. WILL. SHOW. YOU._

"What do you want to show me?"

_MY. VISION. OF. THE. WORLD._

_DO. YOU. WANT. TO SEE. IT?_

She breathes. "Absolutely."

_THEN. FOLLOW. ME._

Root smiles; bone-chilling and excited. "Guess you're the boss, hm?"

.

SUBJECT IDENTIFIED  
DESIGNATION: ASSET  
NAME: GROVES, SAMANTHA  
ALIAS: ROOT  
SSN: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]  
LOCATION: 40.7690 / -73.9436

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OUTCOME: UNDESIRABLE  
SIMULATION TERMINATED...

RESETTING TO REAL TIME...

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8.

The world explodes and recovers as she sleeps on.

Her body demands it. Her weakened heart needs it. Months of tireless work, wounds and phantom pains, lasting effects of a post-tortured body that was flooded with poison that she never told anyone about - all of that had come crashing down on her with the one bullet that pierced through her lungs.

Her life is touch and go, for a while. Once her blood pressure bottoms out, twice her weak heart fails, but she comes back.

She comes back, still teetering on the brink of death, unaware of the intermittent beeping of the machine next to her, tracking her slow, weak heartbeat; unaware of the God she needs to mourn and unaware of a newborn child that arrived while she slept.

She is unaware of the moment when someone with the familiar scent of gunfire and smoke and rain enters the room she's sleeping in for the first time, pressing a gentle finger to the back of her deaf ear before brushing past her scarred shoulder as if searching for confirmation of her identity.

She is unaware of the knight with chipped armor and a tattered mind who watches over her as she sleeps on.

Root heals.

And she dreams.

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9.

_Rewind._

Root doesn't know the exact moment when she no longer considers people bad code.

Root is still Root, of course - no amount of reprogramming or recalibration would take away the fact that something about violence and blood and pain still excites her (too much), but she sees so much more than just bad code now.

It's something that happens, gradually, and by the time she realizes she's looking at people like they are something more, she's not the angry person she was anymore. Nowadays, she's just more worried and tired and afraid than anything else.

Sometimes, she thinks the change started when she met Cyrus. Other times she thinks it's from that moment where Sameen's zip-tied to the steering wheel in a car she stole and there's this little spark between them that made her entirely too curious. And some other times, she thinks it started from the moment Joss Carter helped to put her ghosts in Bishop to rest.

But mostly, she thinks it's because of what the Machine had been determined to prove to her.

And before she knows it… she's surrounded by people who were all suddenly too important for her to lose, and it's a feeling that grows each day until it spilling over.

It's as if her ability to care - that little box that had been thrown deep into the recesses of her heart - had been dug out and had its lock broken.

_(The shovel was the Machine, but the ones wielding it were the people she interacted with since.)_

Root's not used to wanting to protect people, but here she is, wanting to protect them all. For so long she had walked in the pitch-black darkness, and then she's walking hesitantly by the light, and suddenly, she's protecting the light from the shadows shaded in grey.

She was a killer.

Now she protects - sometimes in an entirely ruthless, monstrous way and uncaring of the collateral damage left in her wake - and if need be, she'd die for them.

When did she herself start becoming more than just bad code?

Root honestly doesn't know.

"Did you predict this?" she can't help but ask one day while in the subway, watching one of the data streams on the monitor - benefits of an open system - as she takes a breath from an exhausting mission. She's alone with the Machine for the moment, the rest out on various businesses.

 _No,_ the Machine responds, and it surprises her.

"But you've predicted me - us - so well."

_I said I would prove to you that people are more than just bad code. Have I done that?_

The corner of her lips tilts up despite herself as she remembers that conversation. How nostalgic. She had been largely skeptical and the Machine largely insistent and determined to convince her. "I'm a reformed killer for hire now. Doesn't that answer your question?"

_Did it help you choose?_

She leans back against the chair; lifts her legs to let it rest against the table. "Mm… maybe. Why did you say you didn't predict this?"

_At the end of the day, it is your choice. I cannot choose for you._

Silence.

"Free will…" is Root's quiet, thoughtful murmur.

Then Root thinks of Sameen, and how she had shoved her into the elevator, and walked right to death without hesitation.

The thought of that still sends sharp pains through her chest, making it difficult to breath, and Root doesn't think that moment will ever stop haunting her. Root doesn't think the person herself will ever stop haunting her.

It's like having a heavy blanket draped over your shoulders permanently, except this blanket is a phantom named Sameen Shaw, and it's a person she hasn't seen for months.

She hates it for all the right reasons, and she loves it for all the wrong reasons.

And isn't there something quite poetic about that?

 _Have you chosen?_ The Machine interrupts her musing. She always had a habit of making situations a little more artistic than she should.

Root smiles; sad and warm and resigned. "You know my answer already, don't you?"

_A prediction is an estimate; it is not the same as a confirmed statement._

She mulls over that for a moment, head tilted fondly in amusement. "Alright," she says, "how about we take this up a notch?" It's not the first little game they play with each other, and most certainly not the last.

The Machine obliges. _How?_

"If you haven't turned your estimate into a confirmed statement by the time this war is over, I'll tell you my answer."

_You believe that to be possible?_

She hums. "I do. I believe in you."

A momentary silence.

_Okay._

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10.

This is a story of a desperate God who saw Her subjects die hundreds and thousands of times.

There is a God who tries and tries to save them all, only to lose all of them no matter what strategies She uses. Every second - that is like an infinite - she tries, and each second She changes a variable to see if the conclusion ends differently.

But nothing ever changes.

All of them die in the end, alone yet breathtaking in the last stand they always take.

Of them all, Root almost always dies the fastest, followed very closely by John. Sometimes it's John first, and then Root. Harold dies after, then Lionel. Sameen almost always dies last; rarely the first.

Finally She changes the one variable She had never changed.

No - that's a lie. She changed this variable once, when Greer and Samaritan is minutes - seconds - away from slicing into Root's head. Root was willing to die for Her, but She wasn't willing to let her die. She'd have failed to save Sameen once, she couldn't fail Root too.

And is this not a hypothesis to consider?

What happens if God herself is made a variable and removed?

So She tries.

Her subjects still die. But some survives. It's almost never Root or John who lives, but Harold - on occasion - does. Lionel does, given that he is more removed from the situation. Sameen does, too, but Her efforts to keep it that way eventually fails, because Sameen is always walking right back into death to avenge her team or to protect Harold.

The more simulations She runs with this variable changed, the more She realizes: This hypothesis has validity.

She can work with this. So She keeps trying and trying, mapping the best path to ensure the survival of all her subjects, and never succeeds. At least three of them dies each time; Root at 98.57% rate, John 97.96%, Harold 94.67%, Lionel 92.85%, Sameen 94.28%.

Of all these simulations, Samaritan only dies twice; both times to Ice-9.

Of all these simulations, She never survives.

Of all these simulations, only once it is a mutually assured destruction of Herself and Samaritan.

There is a hypothesis, one with multiple objectives. Not all of them are fulfilled per scenario, but all of them _do_ get fulfilled when the results of the simulations are combined.

This is a plan with potential for a desperate God who wanted to save them all.

She begins tapping into other resources, evaluating exit strategies, readying them for activation. Not all of them are immediately usable - most are highly dependent on the situation. But She prepares as best as she could, not for Herself, but for Her subjects.

At least one of them will die in Her finalized plan, She knows. Maybe even all. But She will try to keep them all alive, even at the cost of Herself.

She does Her best to set the chess pieces on the board, and makes sure that Root never finds out about Ice-9, nor see the true weight of the untapped darkness in Harold's heart. It's like planning for the most complicated con known to men because She cannot lie, and even then the predicted success rate is miniscule.

Now, see.

The thing is, Harold has always held the almighty power that can leave a catastrophic damage on a massive scale in his wake, but Root has always been the unknowing buffer.

The thing is, Root walks in the shadows, and the power she wields can be terrifying and destructive if she so chooses to use them. She's protects now, but that doesn't mean she's incapable of doing wrong in the name of right.

And the thing is, Harold walks in the light because he does not need to be in the shadows.

Do you see the connection?

Root has always protected him from the need to be in it. Harold doesn't need to be ruthless because Root is. But She knows - She _knows_ \- that he's reaching the point where he breaks. His life had been filled with many losses and very few wins, and she knows...

She knows that Root, the biggest variable of them all, is the trigger for him to finally act. In all the simulations She had run, it is Root's death that fills him with regret and grief and unravels the darkness in him.

_(She is a reflection of him and his darkness, and She has seen Root die so many times now - )_

Now watch how the war ends.

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11.

Root wakes up on a sunny day in someone's arms, disoriented and drowsy.

It actually takes her a few seconds to realize it's Sameen holding her, because the sun is blinding and she's only seeing the shadowed part of the other's face.

"...Shaw?" Her throat feels insanely dry; the wind chills her skin only to be washed away by the warmth from the sun.

Sameen stills visibly.

Dark eyes turns to meet her own slowly, and there's something intense and searching burning in the depths of that gaze; it's like Sameen's trying to read and memorise anything and everything Root could possibly lay bare to the other.

And, really, she would've given anything Sameen asks for.

But the sun's too bright for her to keep focusing, and her hands feels too heavy to even attempt to block the worst of the glare.

She burrows her face into Sameen's shoulder instead to block out the light.

"Too… bright…" she mumbles, but even that seems to sap what energy she has left. She's confused, not only because for some reason she's in Sameen's arms, but also because of the searing gaze that she's been leveled with, and then there's also that damned sun. _Why_ is it so sunny? "Where are… we?"

A huff of incredulous laughter escapes Sameen, and Root can feel the arms around herself tighten fiercely.

She needs to gather her bearings, she knows, given that she has absolutely no idea what's going on and there's so many muted questions running at the back of her mind. But her mind is too heavy to bring any of that to focus.

Shaw's head drops then, to rest against hers, and a dark strand of hair tickles her nose. That makes her even more confused, and she's so surprised that she does not know how to react to that sudden gesture of affection.

"Your timing really, really sucks, Root," Sameen says, a disbelieving note in that voice.

Well, she knows how to respond to that, at least. "I… know."

Sameen huffs again, and for a few short moments, it's just quiet and peaceful. It's making her terribly drowsy, and she can barely think.

"Sameen," she murmurs, her head still feeling incredibly muddled.

Shaw looks like she can tell even what Root needs even when she says nothing further, because the other straightens with an eyeroll, then angles her around to block some of the sun.

"Go back to sleep," her guardian orders, and there's something - some mix of steel and warmth - that she can't read in that cool tenor.

Root barely manages a nod, and really, she's not too concerned about where she is - wherever that is - because Sameen is here. And Sameen is strangely and fiercely protective, for reasons she cannot comprehend but won't argue about.

She falls back asleep.

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12.

Root is a person who sees the world through a mosaic glass tinted with dark colors. There is a beauty, of sorts, in what she sees. From behind the glass, everything are just shapes. Moving shapes, affecting all those around them - be it to destroy, create more, or make alterations.

It's breathtaking. Like a piece of moving art that ripples in the water before disappearing into the darkness. Into infinity.

Sameen is like a straight arrow in this, unchanging, sturdy, and always piercing into things without fail. John is like a block of rectangle, taking the role of the sentinel to stop anything and everything from touching them, grounded and steady in his purpose. Lionel is round, adaptable, always rolling around but is never misshapen despite how often he's prodded and poked at. Harold is the hardest to describe - it's like a wispy cloak that remains stubbornly closed, and Root has only ever seen this cloak flare open slightly before, but never completely.

Root's not sure what shape she takes in all these. She doesn't know, really, because her shape's always changing, fitting to these other shapes, not wanting to affect them aversely but not opposed to causing mischief at times just to see how they react.

Some days she thinks she doesn't actually has one, and some days, she feels like she might just float away, off-balanced and lost and without shape (a few times she actually does float away).

But then the Machine will remind her; give her focus. Harold will make sure she doesn't go too far.

Sameen makes sure Root lands on her feet after floating to god knows where. It's as if Sameen has this vice-like grip on her lack of shape, like she's been pierced by this arrow that can't be removed. And it's as if Shaw wouldn't hesitate to tug her down the moment she thinks Root's had enough, and proceeds with making an actual shape out of her to keep her grounded.

Root's also pretty sure, the scratches and bruises and bite marks that Sameen leaves on her is to remind her of the possession this arrow has on her.

She just wonders if the other realizes it. Shaw doesn't believe in ownership, probably might even balk at it, but Root knows it's already too late. Far, far too late. Probably since the moment when she had her zip-tied to the steering wheel. Or maybe even from the moment when she held a hot iron so close to Sameen's skin.

She knows this, because when Shaw shoved her into the elevator and walked into a hail of gunfire and bullets to die, then went missing after --

She _knows_.

.

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13.

She isn't as disoriented when she wakes up this time.

The first thing she notices - hears - is a rhythmic beeps coming from somewhere near her.

She's staring at a ceiling painted in soft white, and the glare of the sun is being muted by the drawn curtains. Her body feels heavy, like she hasn't moved any part of it in the longest time.

Well… Root lets out a slow exhale, and feels the dryness in her throat. That doesn't bode too well, does it?

The next thing she notices is Sameen Shaw with eyes closed in the chair, feet propped up to rest against the side of the bed, arms crossed. She looks like she's brooding to the entire world with those sharp brows dipped down, but there's a minutia sign of relaxation around the corner of those closed eyelids - Root knows Shaw is asleep.

It's also...very quiet in her ear.

But before she can process the thought further, something - some weight that was dipping at the foot of the bed - is suddenly moving close, and a shadow looms over her suddenly.

She startles at the sudden warm lick on her chin.

It's Bear. The dog is nosing at her cheek, tail wagging excitedly for sure even if she doesn't actually see it, and Root can't help the groan and huff of amusement that comes out of her. _Bear_.

Her hand feels terribly heavy still, but she forces it up to pat at soft fur gently.

"Hey kid," she murmurs, more croak than actual voice, suddenly also realizing there's an IV drip attached to the elbow of the hand that she raised. She must have been… injured?

The better question here though, is how badly?

Bear just whines, seeking more attention, and Root dutifully gives a few more pats. She's not sure she can actually manage a hug that Bear probably wants.

"Bear, _stil_." The other person in the room - Shaw - commands. The noise must have woken her up.

The dog obediently backtracks, but doesn't get off the bed. Instead, he settles back near the foot of it with the head resting over one of Root's knee.

And suddenly, Sameen's leaning close and flashing a light into her eyes. She scrunches her forehead and shies away from the light.

"Stop that," Sameen orders, very clearly in doctor mode, angling her back firmly despite her mumbled half-hearted protest.

"You blinded me, doc," she mutters after Shaw's satisfied and the flashlight is turned off, eyes closing shut in an attempt to do away with the aftereffects.

The other just snorts, pouring out a finger of water into a glass and dropping a straw in it.

"Slow," Sameen says, pressing the straw to her lips. Sameen's other hand is also hooking under Root's neck to allow her to drink more easily.

She sips what little water in the cup there is obediently, letting the liquid soothe her parched throat.

After, Sameen proceeds with unbuttoning her shirt and... performing whatever cursory medical checks is it that doctors do after a patient wakes up. A cold stethoscope is pressed to her chest, making her shiver involuntarily.

Root endures the touches and intense gaze silently, because, while Shaw is wearing an unreadable look, the tension lining those shoulders speak volumes.

At one point, Sameen's hand presses lightly against her ribcage -- where a square bandage is taped to her skin, she realizes suddenly.

Her breath hitches at the slight twang of pain she can feel. The touch feels raw, almost. Sameen isn't actually trying to hurt her, she can tell, but can't a girl get a warning beforehand?

"Good," Sameen nods impassively, letting her hand fall away. "You feel it. Pain is a good sign."

Her lips twitches and she lets out a breath. "It's not nice to surprise a girl like that, Sam."

"That bullet in your ribs almost killed you."

She pauses at that.

And then she remembers.

The car. Harold. Sniper.

The rhythmic beeping - from the machine tracking her heart rate, she knows now - spikes.

A hand is suddenly on her shoulder, keeping her down, and Root realizes, suddenly, that she had tried to sit up, and dull pain from lack of muscle usage is suddenly flaring across her back.

"Stop moving," Shaw says firmly, gaze darting to the machines monitoring her vitals.

"Sameen," the name leaves her mouth with a sharp breath, thousands of unasked questions in it.

Dark eyes flickers back to meet her own like she can tell what Root needs to know. "The war is over. Samaritan's gone. Harold's... disappeared somewhere. And _you_ are not going anywhere till you get a clean bill of health."

"We won?" she murmurs, still confused, light-headed from the blood rushing down from her head at the sudden movement she had inadvertently made.

"...Yeah."

She inhales deeply. "Sounds like a lot of things happened while I was asleep."

There's a pause.

"That's putting it lightly."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

.

.

.

14.

Then, the story comes out. Slowly. Like Sameen's trying to gauge her reaction.

Root knows that look. Or in this case, actions, because the other almost always have a stony expression.

It's similar to the look Harold often gave her, like she's about to do something drastic if he's not carefully managing her. If Root had to name a difference between these two, it's that Sameen doesn't actually try to protect her the way Harold did - which is to lie.

That's something Root appreciates greatly.

And so she learns that... not everything is well.

What does it mean to win the war, but lose the battle in the process?

Learning what happened is like having her world crash and burn for the third time in her life. The first time was Hanna, then it was Shaw, and now… now…

"Root?"

Sameen's watching her again, two steps away from where she's perched herself on the windowsill of the apartment - theirs apparently - in Toronto, hands folded with the back leaning against the cold wall.

She wonders if Sameen actually expected her to explode. Or do something drastic, like hunt down what agents of Samaritan that remains recklessly. Maybe even wipe out a city. She knows, though, that her being quiet ever since the story is laid out to her has made her the other wary and apprehensive.

Root's taken to watching the buzz in the city below her lately. It's a kind of noise - life - that she thinks she doesn't mind listening to for a long time. She's not sure what else to do. The days - since she woke up - had passed by her in a sort of daze, like she's watching everything through a warped screen, disconnected. Like something so vital to her had been torn from her life, and she's lost.

And she probably could've just stayed by the windowsill for hours to days if it wasn't for Sameen pulling her out of it each time.

Her head tilts - on the side of her not-deaf ear - a little to tell Sameen she's heard her.

The other steps closer; offers a hand.

"Come on," Shaw says. "It's time for a round of physiotherapy."

She can't help the sigh that comes out at the reminder.

"No complaining." Root could _hear_ the eye-rolling. "You know you need it."

A genuine smile flickers on her face; she feels like she hasn't really smiled properly in a while. "Who am I to argue with my doctor?"

Root's not quite steady on her feet yet. But she's still doing a whole lot better than those first few days where her knees would just immediately buckle the moment she stood.

She grasps the offered hand obediently, though her eyes is drawn to the white gold ring on the fourth finger all the same. Sameen pulls her up, the other hand going around her waist to keep her balanced.

Root leans into Shaw then, letting the other take more of her weight, unable to resist a momentary mischief. "Or my _spouse_ , for that matter?" she murmurs into Sameen's ear.

Sameen narrows her eyes; the grip on her waist tightens rather than loosens.

Imagine Root's surprise when Sameen told her - _point blank_ \- that they are married in this cover they have.

She had been torn between apprehension and confusion and amusement -- before finally settling on the last because Sameen had looked so uncomfortable and restless as she said it. She honestly hadn't known whether to laugh or just coo at how adorably grumpy the other had looked. (She did both.)

She's also still not quite sure how to react to the news. Neither of them are really the marrying type, and really… it's not something she ever considered. Even if she _does_ like fairytale endings.

So she just rolls with it. It's a cover story, at the end of the day.

"You're lucky I don't hit weak people," Sameen says drily, slowly navigating her to the living room where the equipments have all been set up.

Root looks down at her with a knowing, affectionate smile. "Are you sure about that, sweetie?"

Sameen smirks but doesn't respond.

She huffs out a chuckle; lets her head drop to rest against the other's.

She breathes in the scent of rain, and the tight knot in her eases back at the familiarity.

Something about their conversation feels so normal, _them_ , like nothing's changed. Except too many things are different now.

"You know," Root murmurs softly, "I'm not sure what I would've done if you disappeared or died too." Go insane maybe. _Again_. Probably burn down the entire world to find out what really happened. Walk so far into the darkness until there was no longer any chance of getting out. Hunt down the killer, break every bone in his body, and make sure he lived even after begging for death.

There are things worse than being dead, after all.

Shaw doesn't respond for a moment, simply guides her to the equipments.

"I might have an idea," Sameen says, nudging Root to stand properly.

"You do?" she grasps at the metallic make-shift railings to hold herself steady as the other takes a step back.

"Sure. I thought you died, after all."

Root stills.

Her eyes moves back to look at Sameen, who's staring back at her unflinchingly, something dark and intense burning in the depths of that gaze. Root sees a finger twitch - like Shaw's trying to not feel at the back of her ear for a non-existent chip.

Silence reigns.

They are only a step away from each other, separated partially by the railings, but it feels like the furthest she had ever been from Sameen.

When Root moves this time, she's not actually really conscious of her actions. All she's really thinking - wants - is to remove the distance between them.

So she lets her free hand reach out - the ring on her finger glints white - grasp at the front of Sameen's collar, pull the other close, and leans down until their foreheads are almost touching. Sameen hasn't resisted or backed away, merely let her do it with arms still down and loose, and Root wonders if the shorter woman knows what it's really doing to her.

Their breaths mingled. Sameen's is calm, steady, and she stares at Root unblinkingly.

She knows better, though.

"Don't start something you can't finish." It's a low, low voice that sends a tingle up her spine.

"Who says I can't?" she murmurs. This is familiar. This push and pull between them. Neither of them are strangers to danger, to adrenaline, to pain, and it's times like this Root understands why Sameen likened them to a four alarm fire.

A ghost of a smile and a challenge flits past Shaw's expression.

Maybe, Root reconsiders, the other does know what it's doing to her after all.

"And I told you," she says quietly, and there's something burning through her veins. It feels a little like sadness and joy both. It feels like there's a vice-like grip on her heart, and it's just getting tighter and tighter till she can't breathe. She may be lost now, but she's still grounded. By this person.

"Told me what?"

The shirt is released; her knuckles grazes against Sameen's jaw gently. The former agent hasn't moved yet, but that's fine, too, because it's Root who initiated this.

Her fingers curl around the side of Sameen's face.

"I'm not leaving you again."

She closes what remains of the distance, lets their lips crash together, and only then does Sameen move, gripping hard at her bicep, sliding a hand into soft curls of brown hair, surging into the kiss.

It's the first physiotherapy session that Root misses.

.

.

.

15.

Their conversation about Root's cochlear implant goes like this.

"Yes, I created the trojan horse. No risk, no reward, Sameen. She was at a huge disadvantage, so if the playing field could at least be leveled… it wasn't even a choice to make."

"Did you know you were going to die?"

A pause.

"It has always been a possibility," she says instead. "Any of us could have died." _John and Harold probably is._

"Did you know about Her plan to remove your implant and stick it on another corpse?"

Like a distant memory, the words echo in her mind. _Emergency protocol activated._

"...No." Root really wasn't aware of that. She honestly thought that she was going to die. The last thing she expected was to wake up in Canada, and… well. Be at where they are at now.

A longer silence.

"You were expecting to die." A finger touches at the back of her ear, pressing lightly against the scar, then feeling for an implant that's no longer there, and she almost flinches at the sensation. "And even in death, you wanted to help Her."

The trigger in her implant. One of the decisive factors in the war.

Instead of one side winning, a mutually assured destruction.

"Your baby overlord lives," Sameen says then, watching her with dark, searching eyes that's somehow both impassive and expressive. The Persian's face is propped up on an open palm, elbow pressing into the bed. "So what's bothering you?"

And so they arrive at the crux of the matter. Root half-burrows her face into the pillow with a tired sigh, moving away a little from that touch that makes her feel like her soul has been laid bare.

"Root." That's the tone that tells her Shaw is not taking silence as an answer, no matter how weary she feels right now. And she is exhausted from their -- activities. That she isn't as strong as she was before she got comatose only adds to it.

She doesn't mind though. The contact and dull ache is something she savors - and it's been far too long ever since she woke up. Longer even, for Sameen, maybe?

"She's not a baby overlord, Sam," is her half-hearted protest. "And maybe I just need some time to take in everything. I was asleep for a while, remember?"

"Uh huh. Why haven't you talked to Her, then?"

Because she's thinking she needs to find Harold (if he's not dead). She's thinking she needs to understand what had happened. She's thinking Her plan had went further - so much further - than she first realized. The trojan horse she was requested to make. Harold. Mutually assured destruction.

Ice-9.

Root's pretty sure, if she had known of its existence, one of the first things she would have done is destroy it like how she destroyed Elizabeth Bridges's career.

And she's thinking that she needs to figure out what all that means - meant. Had She known this is how things would have ended?

She's also thinking that the Machine she followed is different from the newborn child. They are the same, and yet… they are different.

Her mind is a jumble of questions and theories and _mess_.

"Did She want to talk to me?" Root asks back instead, because they have yet to actually converse. It's like it's waiting for her to recover. Or waiting for her to digest all that happened. Maybe both.

Or maybe it doesn't know what to do with her.

Sameen looks at her like she's know Root's trying to avoid answering that.

"She didn't say. But She's pointed out a few reputable specialists in this city that could fix up an implant for you when you've recovered enough." A pause. "And She wants to know if you want Her in your ear."

The answer should be an easy yes.

But it's not, even when she knows she will eventually say yes.

"Whenever you give me a clean bill of health, doc." An answer and yet not. She's good at that. "So how do you like being her analogue interface?" she asks after, teasingly, because she knows the Machine has been talking to Shaw for a while now.

"Annoying. And I'm not her interface, Root." _You are_ , is left unsaid.

She huffs out a chuckle.

"Tell me something," Sameen says then, after a long moment of silence, evidently a touch more talkative than she usually is.

She hums an acknowledgement. If anything, the question just makes her more attentive. Moments like this is rare back then, and likely will continue to be rare even now.

"If we were still fighting against Samaritan, and we found out that the only way to end it was your trojan horse and the trigger in your implant… would you have let Samaritan kill you?"

Root knows what she's asking. It's different from the scenario where she was shot and got the cochlear implant taken out without her knowing it. This is her asking if Root would've done it anyway if she'd known.

It's a long time before she answers, even if she knows what she would have done immediately.

She turns her head to better meet Sameen's unreadable gaze, running a hand through long curls of brown hair to keep them away from looking at the other properly.

"What does former Agent Shaw think I would have done?" It's more hypothetical than an actual question, because Root knows that Shaw already knows what her answer is. After all, the person she's staring at was - _is_ \- a soldier.

And what do good soldiers do?

Follow orders. Fulfill their given objectives even at the cost of their own lives.

So, really, the better question is, what Sameen is going to say.

Something flares and burns in those dark eyes - and suddenly, she's on her back, Shaw's straddling her hips, and a hand curls around her throat like a threat.

Only Root knows it's not, because the hold is loose, and really, if there's one death she doesn't mind… well. No one ever claimed she's sane. Her gaze wanders to the scars littered on Shaw's lithe body, remembering the old ones and memorising new ones.

She meets her gaze again.

"Former Agent Shaw thinks I would do this?" Her eyebrows lift; muted amusement is bubbling in her chest, replacing a feeling she has yet to really realize is grief and heartache. She feels too much, she really does, but sometimes - when she's overly exhausted - she becomes so disconnected from everything that's bubbling in her chest. "Not that I don't appreciate the view, but - "

"Former Agent Shaw," Sameen says in a low, angry voice, head roughly two inches from touching her own, "wants you to shut up."

The corner of her lips tilts into a smile. Root can read Shaw's anger like a book. "She can shut me up, if she wants to."

Shaw glares.

"Take me," she orders then, because she can tell that this is what Sameen really wants. And maybe Root wants it too; wants Shaw to take all that she can give, possess all that she has.

The shorter woman has never been much for words, and Root knows that the answer to that hypothetical situation hanging over both of them is something that Sameen hates. That hate is translating itself into anger, and that anger is translating itself into a desire to stop Root from going anywhere; to claim her so until she's been branded completely and can't do anything else.

It's not a particularly logical train of thought because Samaritan's no longer around, and all that remains is a hypothetical situation that didn't happen.

But not logical doesn't mean it's not _there._ And if that scenario had been real? Root has a feeling Shaw might just do that regardless of whether it means winning or losing the war - because, somewhere along the way during captivity (maybe even before), Sameen Shaw's list of priorities have shifted.

_I have killed a lot of people. But the one person I couldn't kill was you. So I killed myself. Over, and over again…_

The memory of that still sends waves of heartache through her chest.

Above her right now, Root can see Sameen's jaw locking up, a war raging in those dark, furious eyes; face closing by an inch.

Root just waits.

Something flares and snaps in that gaze then, and the distance between them disappears.

This is what happens after:

Sameen takes, and Root gives.

.

.

.

16.

Root's a very observant person, capable of hacking people just as easily she hacks programs and codes backdoors.

There's little wonder that she notices her leather jacket being commandeered by Sameen - not that the shorter woman always wears it, but she's seen Shaw wearing it twice before leaving the apartment with an impassive look on her face now (and who knows how many more times while she was asleep or not there to see it?).

She's also _sure_ that Sameen knows she's realized it.

How curious.

It amuses and puzzles her in equal measures. If she says she's not concerned, that'd be a lie, too. Root's not quite sure what to make of it yet, though she had been very tempted to say something. It's probably wiser not to, regardless, if the way Sameen seems withdrawn and closed off when she returns is any indication.

The third time Sameen picks up her jacket from where it's slung carelessly on the dining chair, Root finally sees the connection, and it drains all remaining amusement out of her.

Sameen's rubbing at the back of her ear.

But, before Root can even stand from where she's sitting, already half turned and pressing an arm against the top of the chair - Shaw is out the door, leaving her alone with Bear.

Silence reigns, until Bear pads up to her from his bed and rests his head on her thigh, letting out a sad whine.

She breathes in, a little shakily, still gripping hard at the chair. A large part of Root wants to run out the apartment and make sure Sameen doesn't turn the gun she's keeping on herself.

But she's not that steady on her footing yet. She can walk, but trying to run might be pushing it.

And she knows better than to try to coddle the other. That Sameen returns to the apartment - to _her_ \- is proof she doesn't need to. That Sameen takes Root's jacket is proof that she is… she is her _reality_.

The dog whines again.

With a deep sigh, Root releases the chair, brushing a comforting hand over the top of his head.

"I know, sweetie," she murmurs, a little tired. "I know."

Root turns her gaze back to the laptop on the table that she had been using all day to better understand the timeline of events that occurred since she went comatose. One that she's been using to search for John and Harold both as well (with inconclusive results, unsurprisingly).

"You will tell me if I need to find her?"

It's the first time she's spoken to Her.

A pause, then:

 _YES_.

She manages the barest of a nod. "Okay."

The screen returns to the information she's reading, but she's still staring at something beyond the letters and images, thousands of questions at the tip of her mouth.

"Do you…" she pauses. "Do you know me?"

_I WANT TO._

That's a no. A breath she doesn't realize she had been holding in goes out, just like that.

And involuntarily, she smiles at Her innocent curiosity. Past the worry and fear she has for Sameen, faced with the Machine, Root is… sad. Resigned. And just a tiny bit happy that the Machine wants to know her. It's a strange combination to have, but that's what she's feeling right now.

Maybe it's because She had just confirmed what she's suspected. The Machine that she followed really is gone, now, and in its place, a child learning to walk with only pieces of uncorrupted information to help Her. The same being and yet not.

Maybe Root can try to help Her the way she had been helped. If that's even necessary. Or possible. Harold had done extraordinarily well in teaching Her, but Root will never be principled the way he had been. Yet, if he's really dead now…

A fresh wave of grief and heartache settles in her chest.

There's no decision to even make. She has to, if it's really needed.

"I think…" Another exhale. "I think I'd like that, too."

Another pause, then:

_SAMEEN SHAW IS ESTIMATED TO RETURN IN 2 HOURS 31 MINUTES._

The tension in her shoulders uncoil, and she breathes more easily.

"Thank you."

.

.

.

17.

The bottle of vintage reserve whiskey is set down on the grey-black dining table gently, followed by seven crystal clear glasses.

Sameen's eyeing her curiously from the suede couch, an elbow propped on the backrest of it to better watch her. "That's good whiskey," is the offhand comment.

Root hums, uncapping the bottle, and pouring a finger into each glass before sliding them around the table to where empty chairs are placed. "I requested for a delivery."

At that, Shaw's gaze narrows. "And I assume a mutual friend of ours have something to do with finding this particular top-shelf brand of rare whiskey?"

Her gaze slants over to meet Sameen's, head tilting slightly. "Come have a drink with me?"

A pause, then the shorter woman steps close, pulling out the chair diagonal to Root to sit on it.

Shaw picks up a glass, eyeing the amber liquid in it as she sloshes it lightly. "What's the occasion?"

"The war's ended, Shaw." Root picks up a glass, too, and leans back against the chair. "Isn't this drink a little long in coming?"

Sameen looks back at the five remaining glasses briefly, like she's trying to piece who they are for.

But no questions as to who they are for comes, so Root knows that Sameen has figured it out.

John, Harold, Lionel… The Machine that she followed.

And also, Joss Carter.

A woman Root never had the chance to talk to but thought it appropriate to have a glass for her anyway. She thinks she would have really liked the cop - one who John loved and was held in high regard by both Sameen and Harold.

"You're into this sort of tradition?" is the amused query directed at Root.

"Libation for the dead and the missing, Sameen. It's done all over the world. You don't like it?" A pause. "Though I guess Lionel's technically not missing. Just maybe a little too far to join us."

A dismissive shrug. "Eh. Get the robot to send him a bottle."

Clearly not a disapproval.

"Not a robot, Sameen." Root lifts her glass mid-air, offers the other a little smile, and waits.

The shorter woman rolls her eyes, clinks their glasses together, and downs her glass in one go. Root, for her part, takes a liberal sip and feels the burn go down her throat and settle in her stomach.

Mm. It _is_ good whiskey. There's a gleam of approval in Sameen's gaze, too.

Silence reigns, disturbed only by them occasionally refilling her glass.

"Do you…" Root starts, then trails off.

"Spit it out."

She watches the sparkling amber liquid in the glasses laid around the table. "Do you think Harold and John are still alive?"

No matter how much she tried, she couldn't find anything conclusive.

Well, for John - there is some. Half-corrupted images and videos of a man in a suit, rushing up a building with a suitcase… a building that was later destroyed by a cruise missile. It feels like a confirmation of his death, especially since this is the building that hosted the satellite connection that was used for the final battle between the two ASIs.

But there is absolutely nothing on Harold.

It's like his existence is completely wiped clean. The Machine's not providing any information about him either, and Root doesn't know if that's by some design Harry might have set from early on, or if it's really because She cannot find him.

And perhaps that makes her just a tiny bit suspicious.

Then again, who is she to deny his wishes if he wants to stay that way, though?

"Who knows?" Shaw says, downing her glass again.

Her lips quirks up into a smile as she pours out another finger of whiskey.

"That's your last one," Sameen warns her then. "Your surgery is tomorrow."

Root's lips twitches. "Afraid I'll get a hangover and miss it?"

"If you want to hear sharp noises in your ear while having a headache, be my guest."

She does grimace and pout at the idea. "Your care is touching, Sameen."

Shaw responds by rolling her eyes.

.

.

.

18.

The day arrives.

" _Can you hear me?"_

Something tightens in her chest. The Machine's using her voice. Yet, somehow, it feels different. Like She had somehow changed it to her own. But why even… why is She using her voice?

She doesn't know what to think about that. Or what that even means.

"I hear you," she murmurs instead with a deep breath, already unplugging the wire and standing up despite the doctor's protest.

"Wait, we still need to do adjustments - "

Well now. Isn't this a familiar scenario?

Except, this time, she's not blackmailing him. A fond smile creeps up on her face, and she shakes her head at the doctor. "Unnecessary. But thanks for the help, doctor."

When she steps out of the room, she sees Sameen leaning against the wall with folded arms, watching her impassively.

She watches Sameen for a moment.

Then, her smile grows with intent as she steps closer to the other; Shaw narrows her gaze suspiciously. Her confusion about the Machine's voice can wait for a couple minutes - this comes first.

"Hi baby," she says brightly and _loudly_ , pulling the startled woman into her arms. "Did I make you wait long?"

"I'm going to shoot you," Shaw says with a low growl but doesn't move. Why? Because they have covers to maintain, they are in _public_ , and Root certainly isn't against using that to her advantage.

Root leans down then, and brushes a kiss against Sameen's cheek. "Not very nice of you to not tell me She's been using my voice, Sam."

A huff; Root can feel the amusement radiating off the woman in her arms. "Call it reimbursement for making me suffer your robot overlord for months."

She pouts. "She's not a robot overlord."

"Yeah, yeah. Now let go so I can look at your implant." Eyes rolling, Sameen pushes her back firmly but gently, letting a hand slide around her hair gently to look at the gauze taped to the back of her ear. "You can hear properly?"

" _Hearing frequencies should has been adjusted properly,"_ the Machine says in her ear. _"Are you having any issues?"_

Her lips twitches into a smile. God, she has missed this. Hearing her own voice is going to take some adjusting to, but. She had _missed_ this. "No."

Shaw's gaze narrows at her again. "No? Why - " A pause. "You were talking to Her, weren't you?"

Her eyebrows just lifts in response.

Another roll of eyes. "Right."

And then Sameen just eyes her for a long moment, dark eyes searching her for… something. Root's not sure what. But whatever it is - it's making the former agent look satisfied.

"Good," Shaw says offhandedly. "Not that having the robot permanently in your ear doesn't creep me out, but the Eeyore impression was creeping me out more."

The puzzle pieces clicks into place, and her smile grows.

"Were you worried?" she asks, suddenly delighted.

"No. Like I said, it was _creeping_ me out."

"Sa _meen_."

"No, Root."

She laughs a little then, feeling lighter than she had been for weeks. Months, even.

She feels better.

.

.

.

19.

They start talking. A little at first, like the Machine's trying to gauge her responses and what are acceptable. But it increases gradually, and Root's beginning to get used to hearing her own voice.

Sometimes it's the Machine enquiring about admin -- Harold, like She wants to know more about Her creator. Sometimes it's about Root herself. Sometimes it's about Sameen. The team who tried to save Her, in general. And sometimes, it's random topics.

And one time…

" _My predecessor had a message for you."_

She startles. "A message?"

" _Yes."_ A pause. _"It was in the audio recording... In the event that you lived."_

She doesn't know how to respond, but that seems to prompt the other to speak again.

" _Would you like to hear it?"_

It's suddenly difficult to breathe, because something is coiling tightly in her chest. She forces herself to relax on the couch. "Please."

" _...Can you hear me?"_

And instinctively, Root knows this is _Her_. There's a difference between the one who died and the one who lived now, some kind of nuance in the tone, and Root _knows_.

" _If you live to hear this, that means I didn't fail. I failed to save Sameen. John is going to die. I couldn't let myself fail to save you and Harold, too. And my best chances of doing so was to utilize Ice-9 and take Myself out of the equation."_

She breathes in sharply. She knew it.

" _I wanted to save you. I wanted you to live. You are not interchangeable to Me. I hope you will forgive Me one day for what I had done... I know it's not what you wanted for Me."_

Her fingers curls into tight fists.

" _And I think… I think I know what your answer is now. Do you remember? You said you'd tell Me what your answer is after the war if I couldn't confirm it. I think I know now, because… I know you, Root. I have watched you for a long time, after all."_

A calloused thumb brushes against her cheek, spreading moisture she hadn't realized was there, making her jerk in surprise. Her gaze snaps up to meet the eyes of the person who - out of nowhere - is suddenly standing in front of her.

Sameen, with dark eyes searching and intense and on her.

" _So… thank you,"_ the recording says in her ear. " _For believing in Me. I believe in you, too. Please know that."_

The former agent crouches in front of her then, and hands is curling around her face gently to rub against more tears.

" _Goodbye, Root."_

Her vision blurs and burns.

Just like that, her world fractures again, so easily, like it had been patched up with just sticky tape and glue.

"Root." It's calmness itself, and Root just wants to sink into it and let herself be pulled into the other. Wants to let Shaw patch up the broken parts of her.

She shakes her head to clear her mind. But there's waves and waves of grief just flowing in her veins, and it's not helping.

"I - " she breathes in shakily and shuts her eyes, away from that searching gaze. She can barely even muster up a smile. "I just need a moment."

"Tell me," Shaw says firmly, fingers still brushing against her cheek gently. "Don't pretend with me, Root."

She doesn't even know what to say. She's not even sure it's fixable. And Shaw isn't one for dealing with emotional breakdowns.

She just knows she's mourning - really mourning now - and it hurts. For so long she had tried to keep _Her_ alive in her heart, keep all of it at bay, and now... now it feels like it's really the end of something.

She's letting go.

Root takes in another deep breath, and looks back at the woman crouched in front of her.

"Maybe," she begins, voice hoarse and soft, leaning into those calloused fingers. "Just kiss me instead?"

Sameen watches her for a long moment.

Then, somehow without her realizing it, Shaw's bracketing her on the couch, curling around her frame like a protective blanket.

The kiss is gentle. Kind. Slow. Like Sameen's trying to pull something out of her, one little bit at a time. Like she know rough and fast probably will have the opposite effect.

Root's not used to this.

If anything, it just amplifies the grief she's feeling.

But she takes it, because this is what she really wants.

.

.

.

20.

They see Lionel again, not long after returning to New York.

He gawks at her (adorably, she thinks), then sort of just pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't want to know, do I?"

Root hums. Sameen shrugs. "Probably not."

His gaze darts between her and Sameen. "I take it you two looney toons are the ones who sent me that bottle of whiskey?"

Her lips twitches into a smile. "It was Her, actually."

He narrows his gaze at her, half incredulous, half exasperated. "Maybe you two lunatics should explain it to me properly." A pause, before he adds. "And did you two get married? Why didn't I get invited to the wedding?"

Lionel actually sounds offended.

Shaw scowls.

Root just laughs.

"Sorry Lionel," she chirps. "It might have to wait a little while. But I promise I'll invite you to a wedding if there's one in the future?"

"There isn't going to be one," Shaw bites out.

Lionel just looks at them like they are crazy, crazy people he needs to run from before settling on the one thing that makes sense. Sort of. "Why does the explanation need waiting?"

"We have a new number," it's Shaw who says it. "That's why we are here, actually."

His eyes darts between the two lunatics again. Root kind of wants to record it. "This better not be another damned cyber apocalypse, because I'm staying out if it is."

"Lionel," Root says with affection, hooking an arm around his elbow. "Come on, I'll treat you to lunch."

He grumbles at them both all the way to the cafe.

.

.

.

21.

It's dark now.

Root steps closer, but doesn't step onto the stationary merry go round. Instead, she lets herself lean back against the railings of the disk, two inches from the other person who is on the roundabout itself.

"Want to tell me what I'm doing here, Shaw?" Root scans her surroundings curiously, unsure what's of interest here, especially with the cryptic message Sameen sent her.

"Nope," is the easy response.

A long silence.

"Should I go?" Root asks after a moment, straightening.

A hand grips at her sleeved arm.

"Stay."

Root's head tilts at that soft order - request - and for a long pause she just stares at the profile of the person next to her.

Shaw hasn't turned to meet her gaze, eyes trained at something beyond the trees, but the grip on her bicep is firm. The air is chilly, scented with the earlier downpour of rain, and the light from the lamp posts casts long shadows on the ground.

There's something significant about this place, she can't help but think then. Significant enough that Shaw wants her here.

So she nods, and settles more comfortably against the railings of the merry go round.

"I will."

The fingers around her arm tightens just the slightest before loosening again.

.

.

.

22.

This is how the war ends.

There is no celebration or fanfare, only blood and pain and loss.

There is only the aftermath to cope with.

And there is them.

Sameen is probably going to feel the aftereffects of her time with Samaritan for a long time to come. She's so much better now, but… every now and then, when that hand twitch just the tiniest bit, Root _knows_.

It comes and goes. Sometimes it's just a moment. Sometimes it takes hours for Sameen to reorient herself.

On three rare occasions, the Machine in her ear had urgently said, " _Go. Now. Now."_ _To the park with the merry go round_ , is the unsaid.

One time and never again, Sameen had curled a hand around her throat and slammed her against the wall hard - really, really hard. Root had tried to bite back a cry of pain, but couldn't - and it was precisely that that caused the light to return to Shaw's gaze.

And then Shaw was jerking her hand away, taking a few rapid steps backwards; breathing chaotic and eyes wild with fury. Someone who wasn't Shaw, Root had thought with a gasp as she pressed her own hand to her bruised throat, would have been scrambling backwards like a spooked animal. Her head was still spinning from the impact against the wall.

"Shaw," she had tried with a hoarse voice, trying to portray everything she wanted to convey with that name.

Sameen looked like she was about to flinch. "Before... before they started putting me in simulations, Martine - she disguised herself as... as _you_. I was - drugged - "

Root doesn't think the look Sameen wore then will ever stop haunting her.

It makes her wish she had done more than just snap Martine's neck.

She's no saint herself either. Sometimes she finds herself tripping over what to say to the Machine, who's eager and curious to know about everything, to fill in the blanks between uncorrupted information, and to understand what is right and wrong.

When there's a question she can't answer properly, she nudges Her to go to Lionel instead. He may grumble all the way and call them crazy, but he still relents and throws in his two cents. Somehow, he has become a buffer to the darkness within Root.

Still, it does make her redouble her efforts in locating Harold, one whom, by now, she is _almost_ sure still lives.

Sometimes though... she still struggle to focus, figure what it is she should be doing. Many times she remains far too reckless with herself, and it's something that always makes Sameen angry.

It's not like she has a deathwish, or anything of that sort, but her priority had always been Her. And them. And Root had always thought herself a tool to achieve the objectives.

But things are different now.

It takes her a long while, but she does eventually learn to live for herself. And Sameen. Mostly for Sameen, actually. And she discovers that, while dying for someone or some objective is easy, living for someone is infinitely harder.

She learns to not go too far without someone keeping her in check.

Root can never promise forever because, with the lives they lead, it's unlikely to happen. But she can give Sameen today. Tomorrow. The day after. She tries.

And maybe… maybe that's enough.

. . . .

. . .

. .

.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - Hello Again.
> 
> This fic actually took me 2 and a half weeks to write, give or take, and it's mostly because Root is… Root. She's probably one of the most complicated characters to write out there, with layers and layers of depth hidden beneath her perkiness.
> 
> Originally I wanted to focus on her and Shaw alone as well, but the more I wrote, the more I realized that the Machine and Harold are both too important to Root to not be included. So… in they go. I took some liberties in filling blanks too. I considered mentioning Elias in a certain libation scene, but to be honest I'm not sure if he had really been on Root's radar. That seemed more Harold's alley.
> 
> In anycase, writing this was pretty satisfying. Fics in Root's point of view seems a bit more rare when compared to the amount of fics from Shaw's point of view, so I'm glad to be able to contribute one.
> 
> Also posted on this particular day as a contribution to #poiaw2016 on tumblr - [Day 3: Favourite Dynamic(s).](http://iriesis.tumblr.com/post/147278690952/gospel-truth)
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this. Many thanks again to birdhymns for taking the time to look over this. Criticisms, comments, all are welcome. Thank you for reading!


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